Good news

The passage from this morning comes from the Gospel according to Saint Luke 2:41-52.

What is the good news in the passage?

That's how we are taught to start writing our sermons in seminary. That's the question that we ask ourselves when we are stuck. That's what my husband annoyingly repeats to me when I turn to him with an over-dramatic sigh and say, "I've got nothing."

Sometimes - I think I can safely say most of the time - it's not terribly hard to find the good news in a biblical passage. At least at the surface, it is typically something like, "Jesus heals" or "Jesus brings us into community" or "we are all a part of the Kingdom of God through Christ."

Other times, finding the good news in a passage is not that easy.

Sometimes, finding the good news in life is just as difficult.

As I think about the last few days we have had together as a community at Luther House Chapel, I can't help but think that this is one of those times when finding the good news is not so easy.

Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy, festivities, being with family, eating good food. But this Christmas we had to lay one of our sisters to rest much too soon.

And as we sit here this morning, looking for the good news in this passage, we are also looking for good news in this place, in this season, as we mourn one of our very own in great sorrow.

This morning, verse 48 sticks out to me - "His parents didn't know what to think." As I sat at my desk looking for words for this morning, as I stood at the wake and funeral over the past few days, as I felt her absence so poignantly in this community, I didn't know what to think.

I longed for good news, I longed for joy and peace - in this congregation and in this passage, but I was unable to find it. And I kept going back to that verse - "They didn't know what to think."

And not even a week after Christmas, we encounter this passage and we ask a similar question as Mary asked of Jesus that day, "Why have you done this to us?" We ask God in the midst of our grief and pain, "Why now? Why her? When we loved her so dearly, when she was such a part of our family? Why have you done this to us?"

And then this next comment from Mary sticks with us even more: "I have been frantic, searching for you everywhere." In the middle of this season of our own grief and sorrow, we sometimes look to the sky and call out, "Where are you, God? We are searching for you everywhere!" And we are searching for God frantically.

And I wonder, if Jesus had been older in this story, if he had been more mature, would Jesus have had a different answer for his frantic mother? Would he have been more gentle? Because as the story goes, he says, "You should have known where I was. Why were you searching for me? I was in my father's house." I imagine the twelve-year old Jesus adding something like "Come on mom! Stop worrying!"

I also imagine that when Jesus was older and more mature, he reflected on that memory with his mother. I'm sure she remembered it much more vividly than he did - her fear, anxiety, maybe even her anger when she was frantically searching for him. And Jesus lovingly would calm her saying, "Mother, you should know - I would never leave you, I have never left you. I will never leave you."

This is good news.

And if we move back further in the passage, there are two other details that point toward the good news. Stay with me, here.

At the beginning of this story, it says that Mary and Joseph weren't worried about having Jesus right next to them. They assumed he was with the other travelers, so they didn't fret. This tells us one of two things. Either they were pretty neglectful parents, or they were a part of a community that was so closely knit that they were comfortable with not knowing exactly where their son was. I'm going to go out on a limb and say Mary and Joseph were not neglectful parents.

For most people, it might be hard to imagine a community so closely knit that people's children run around and their parents know that they will be taken care of. But it's not difficult to imagine if you are a part of Luther House. We know what it is like to be a part of a community that comes together in one of the busiest times of the year to care for one another and love one another well.

This is good news.

And finally, we can look at what Jesus was doing in the temple while his parents were frantically searching for him. He was sitting among the people listening and asking, he was understanding and answering. We have a savior who sits among us, even in our grief, listening and asking, understanding and answering. We are loved by a savior who understands our pain and our grief because he has endured it the same as we have. He endures it with us today.

And although we have so many questions, so many things left unanswered, the good news is that we don't have to be the ones who answer the questions. We don't have to answer the "whys" and the "whats nexts." We are called simply to obey, to love one another, to carry each other onward in community in the way that our Lord taught us.

This is good news.

Every single day

I remember the evening I thought my husband might finally, fully understand. 

The night he thought his life was in danger. 

I remember the evening he told me about it- he sounded a little bit silly if I'm honest. I remember trying to give him rational explanations for each thing he was explaining - the way the man acted, the way he was dressed, the bag he carried, his uneasiness. But ultimately I didn't comfort my husband. I made him feel ridiculous for thinking his life might be in danger. In that situation I had the privilege of sitting outside of what happened without fear, knowing that ultimately he was safe because he had come home to me that night. 

The tables had turned in that moment. I was the one with privilege, the one who was safe and unfeeling. And he was the one who felt angry, hurt, and abandoned when I didn’t comfort him appropriately, when I didn’t take him seriously.  

But as I recounted this story to him again a few weeks ago, I remembered the fear in his eyes as he told me about it the first time, I remembered the slight trembling in his voice. I even remembered his hesitation in telling me.

"Do you remember how you felt in that moment?" I asked, "How terrified you were?" 

"Yeah." 

"That's how I feel. Every single day.”

Looking back on it now, I realize that I wasn't just talking about how I feel when I think my life is in danger. I was also talking about the feeling of fear and anxiety as I begin recounting my story. Fear I'll be rejected, fear I won't be taken seriously. 

A few days later as I began writing this blog post, with that same fear and anxiety, my husband read it and said, “Really? Every single day?” 

My wonderful, loving, perfect husband was doubting my feelings, doubting the validity of my story. 

But it’s not his fault. He simply doesn’t know. And honestly, he will probably never truly understand. And it doesn't do any good to blame him for something he has no idea about. 

But it’s time that we women stop doubting ourselves and just tell our stories. 

Because I’m not being over-dramatic. I’m not over-exaggerating. By the time I began wearing a bra and my hips began to fill out my dresses and jeans, I had men hitting on me. All ages of men, all social classes, all races. And it happened constantly. I don’t mean once a week or twice a month, but every day. 

And it wasn’t isolated to one “type” of people. 

If I wore something deemed “distracting” to school, I would be sent away from the classroom. By female teachers and male teachers alike. So every day I was faced with the decision of whether I wore what I was comfortable wearing, or I wore what other people were comfortable with me wearing. 

From a very young age I began hearing things like, “well, what was she wearing?” or “That outfit says she’s asking for it.”  When I asked men and boys to stop staring at my breasts, I was told I shouldn’t wear such a revealing shirt.

And I fell for it. Like most of us do, I fell into the trap of society which tells me that if I wear a certain thing, then I deserve to be treated a certain way. If I look a certain way, it shows I have no respect for myself and no one else will either. I fell into the trap just like every single one of my friends did. But it didn't stop there. Eventually I could feel the shift. It wasn't about what I wore or how I looked, it was because of who I am - a woman. 

Recently, I came to realize just how trapped I still am in this way of thinking. Despite my battle-cries of feminism, I am still trapped inside this culture that says women can be treated however men feel is appropriate. 

As I grow older, I begin to truly realize how dangerous society is for women. 

It is quite incredible to me how much violence is directed toward women on a regular basis and called normal. Women are sexually harassed every single day, out in the open, in crowds. But it's seen as innocent. Men claim that it is "a compliment" or "flattering."

It's the crude comments. The whistles. The pelvic thrusts in my direction. The "mmhmm"s and the "oo baby"s that greet me around the corner. The kissing noises directed at my backside. The stares. The nods. 

My heart beats faster as "fight or flight" reflexes kick in, my hand clamps my husband's (if I'm lucky enough to have him next to me), I walk faster, I grab for my keys or umbrella, I look down at my phone (into which I have already typed "911") and think would anyone actually come help me?

My reaction may sound ridiculous, but as someone who has heard stories that start with "hey baby" and end with three days unconsciousness in a motel room after being repeatedly raped and beaten by at least six men, my reaction may sound justified.

Cat-calls and pelvic thrusts are not flattering and they are certainly not innocent. They perpetuate the thinking that women can be treated as sexual objects simply because they are women. It makes us less than human, less than worthy of respect and honor.

Allow me to share this portion of a "feelings wheel" to the left. Especially notice the section under "fear" that breaks down "insecure" and "submissive." This is what sexism does. Yes, those other feelings are there - frightened, terrified, overwhelmed.

But for anyone who has been sexually harassed or physically assaulted, it goes further than that. Eventually, living in a society where this kind of open harassment and abuse is accepted and sometimes encouraged, we begin to feel worthless, insignificant, and inadequate. After being harassed every single day since we hit puberty, these feelings are hard to ignore. So we blame ourselves.

And when I am harassed I, because of the society in which I was raised, immediately look down at what I'm wearing when this happens (every single day) and think, "I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt!" or "I'm wearing a long skirt just like every other woman on this train!"

I immediately blame myself. I evaluate myself and make sure it's not something I'm doing/wearing to cause this reaction from men. One (male) friend said, "it's probably because you're blonde." And guess what? I thought, "I would absolutely dye my hair black if it meant I wouldn't be sexually harassed like that all the time." I victim-blame myself! Over and over again we do this to ourselves and to others. And others do it to us.

And it not only leads to fear. It leads to feelings of inferiority, inadequacy, and worthlessness. It leads to violence, depression, and suicide. Cat-calling is not innocent. Whistling at someone is not flattering. It kills.

We are not being overdramatic. We are not exaggerating our exhaustion or our fear. Our stories matter. Our stories are what will break us from the chains of this society which tells us that sexism is something we must simply "get over." The chains of this society are thick. And I wonder at how much effort it takes me, a women with these stories ingrained in my very soul, to break free from these chains. And my heart aches at how much more it will take to break our brothers, who likely have never lived these stories and sometime never even heard them, from these patriarchal chains.

So we must tell our stories. We must tell them. Despite the reactions from society. Over and over again we must tell them without hesitation. Otherwise, our wonderful, perfect, loving, well-intentioned husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons will never know the truth.

Cameron Highlands

This weekend we had the privilege of bring driven two hours north to the mountains to meet some of our sisters and brothers in the Orang Asli community. We went with Daniel's church, Bangsar Lutheran Church, to install a solar panel on the small community's church building.

We were surprised that the community was right off the main road and not more secluded.

Most of the houses sat on stilts and made from a combination of bamboo, tarps, tin roofing, and plywood.

The church is large and carefully crafted from concrete.

While Daniel worked with the solar-panel installation crew, I wandered around the community and talked to people (with a translator of course) about the church, people, and culture of living in the mountains. The women in this community really love Bollywood films, so some of the Indian women from Bangsar taught them how to prepare Indian snacks. We made onion pakoras (onion fritters) and corn pakoras (corn fritters). It was some of my favorite food we have had so far (I am finding I am partial to South Indian food).

Adding ginger to the onions for onion fritters.

Frying it up!

Mashing the corn for the corn fritters.

About the time we were finished frying everything, the solar panel engineers had finished with their work. It took a lot of work and shaky ladders, but just about the time the sun started beaming down, the wiring was ready to be done.

Lights inside the church will allow the community to gather despite the setting sun. Kids will be able to work on their homework and read late into the night. 

After the hard work of cooking and solar paneling, we relaxed and hung out with some of the kids (from Bangsar and from the Orand Asli community). And I, of course, went to take some pictures.

The boys from Bangsar were happy to get dirty.

Daniel relaxing in the sunshine.

 That night, we made our way further up the mountain to the Lutheran Mission Bungalow. It's a huge beautiful house that sits above a valley. As we went up, everything was covered in a thick fog, making the trek pretty creepy. After settling in to our rooms, we went back down the mountain about 2km to the town. It was finally dinner time! Steamboat was on the menu. Steamboat is basically the Asian equivalent to fondue. You get big plates of meat and veggies and add it to a pot of boiling soup stock. 

The next morning we were greeted by cool weather and fresh air. We lounged around for a portion of the morning after breakfast enjoying the beautiful view from the bungalow. As we made our way back down toward Kuala Lumpur, we stopped to see the famous Cameron Valley tea fields. 

We also got to stop at one of the most beautiful and largest waterfalls I have ever seen. 

The trip to Cameron Highlands couldn't have been more perfectly timed. It was a great 24 hours of balanced work and relaxation - the perfect place to take a break and recharge. I have definitely found my happy place.